


The Honeymoon Fic

by ThisPeep



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drugs, M/M, Pain, Sadness, Suicide, you should probably cuddle with a cute animal after reading this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:35:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3891427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisPeep/pseuds/ThisPeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock takes drugs. Jim doesn't like it. No happy endings come to the unclean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Honeymoon Fic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xojim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xojim/gifts).



It worried Jim, admittedly.

It wasn’t all the time, so it was alright, but it was still a bit worrying. Habitual drug use was something that tended to worry people, after all.

Jim didn't use the word 'junkie' and Sherlock in the same sentence. Not in his journals, not out loud, and definitely not around Sherlock. And even if he did happen to let himself think that Sherlock could probably be counted as something that might be described using a word as vicious and unforgiving as such, he didn't have the right to complain.

He left whenever Sherlock used.

Which was unfair because when Jim did something stupid, Sherlock didn’t leave. He stayed and he helped, even if Jim wouldn’t talk for hours on end Sherlock stayed. But Jim didn't. He left and was selfish and only thought about himself, could only think about what the love of his life was doing to his brain and how it affected Jim. He couldn’t stand it.

Then again, Jim had been thinking about Sherlock a lot that night, because Jim was off in one of his smaller flats.

He had recognised the signs. Sherlock had been acting irritable-- the muscles in his jaw tensed in a harsh clench at seemingly random times, his glares more frequent, his teeth grating to repressed long-suffering sighs whenever something happened-- or when a lack of something happened-- and his entire body was high-strung, wired to snap at the first sign of danger. Jim loathed sticking around before Sherlock got high.

While Jim couldn’t stand being around Sherlock right before a hit, he hated it even more when Sherlock was actually high. He was so stupid. He was slow and pathetic and too flirty and obsessive and it was wrong. Sherlock was all wrong and Jim couldn’t _stand_ it. It was appalling. So he left.

Everytime so far, he’d left. After the first time.

_”Jim!”_

_Of course, hearing his name shouted hadn’t meant anything bad, then. Jim’d just assumed that Sherlock was excited about something, so he’d slipped off his jacket before following Sherlock’s voice into the living room._

_”Jim! It is you.” Sherlock had looked frazzled. Slightly unbalanced._

_“Of course it’s me. What’s wrong?”_

_Sherlock grinned. “Nothing. Everything’s perfect. Kiss me.”_

_”Sherlock. I’m not kissing you right now. What in the world is going on?" Pinprick pupils, buzzing with energy-- undirected and loud-- ecstatic at nothing in particular. "Are you high?”_

_Sherlock had nodded enthusiastically. “It feels amazing. Why did I ever stop? I can do so much right now! Let’s experiment. Or have sex. Or both.”_

_That’d properly worried Jim. “Sherlock, you’re asexual.”_

_Sherlock blinked, processing. “I want to feel things.”_

_Jim had been uncomfortable, of course, but he wouldn't have left, still, if Sherlock hadn’t moved closer and pulled Jim into a kiss, ignoring when he flinched away. Ignoring when he tugged away, or attempted to, finally only letting go when Jim practically tore his wrists free._

_And even then Sherlock only looked dumbfounded, not regretful. ”What’s wrong?”_

_Now, Jim had experienced many types of speechlessness throughout his life. It was an unforgiving condition, especially then. It was a strong disbelief that jammed in his throat, clogging up words that so desperately wanted to get free, heedless of what they were or what they'd mean._

_After a few moments Jim had let his mouth click shut. "You are." He said, after another pause to force those two tiny words past the blockage, and with that Jim threw Sherlock a disgusted look before he left._

It was probably safe, by now. Heroin lasted hours, but after the first one or two it mostly just led to sleepiness. A calm laziness. That part Jim could deal with. (And heroin was better than cocaine-- Sherlock wasn’t as wound up as he was that first time, or along with the beginning others. Heroin helped him relax, at least. It wasn’t good, but it was better.)

He didn’t want to. Jim wanted to go home and find Sherlock clean and smiling and stimulated and happy and _clean_. 

Jim picked himself off the bed and got collected before returning to Sherlock.

 

“Sherlock?” He usually didn’t respond, but it was worth checking anyway.

Jim sighed, irritated, and started to wander through the house before finding Sherlock in their bed, sleeping.

(Jim sighed in relief, then. He was always scared, coming home. There were dangers in drugs that couldn’t be denied.)

He sat down next to Sherlock, carding a hand through his hair. “Sherlock. I’m home.” He murmured, and Sherlock turned to face Jim in his sleep, but didn’t wake.

Again, not uncommon. Jim simply laid down next to Sherlock, draping an arm over his waist. “Okay. Sweet dreams, love. I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

Jim woke up alone.

There was the sound of vomiting coming from the bathroom, though, so it wasn’t as though he didn’t know where Sherlock was. At least he’d probably slept through the night.

Jim got up, pulling the top blanket off the bed with him, walking into the bathroom. He laid the blanket over Sherlock’s shoulders, sitting down next to him on the floor. “Morning.”

Sherlock sent Jim a tired look. “Morning, Jim.” His voice was raw.

Jim sighed softly, placing a hand on Sherlock’s back stroking absentmindedly as they fell into a long stretch of silence, only broken up by a few dry heaves from Sherlock.

Hard to be in a chatty mood when speaking hurt and thinking caused headaches, Jim supposed. But talking with Sherlock was one of Jim’s favorites pastimes, and he found it hard to resist at least trying. 

“Want some water?”

Sherlock simply nodded his head yes. Slowly. (Definitely a headache, then.)

Jim hadn’t exactly expected it to work, anyway. He stood up and went to the kitchen, filling up a glass with water before heading back to the bathroom. He didn’t make it all the way there, though, Sherlock was sitting on a chair in their bedroom, so Jim handed him the glass before sitting on the bed.

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock’s eyes were downcast.

Jim hated this conversation. It was nothing but lies, from both ends. “I know.”

“I won’t do it again. I promise.”

Jim nodded automatically. 

“That was the last time, Jim. I mean it, you know I do.”

Jim knew exactly how much Sherlock meant it. Which was basically the same thing, so he nodded again.

“I’m sorry.”

Always twice. Like Sherlock had forgotten he’d already apologized for driving Jim out again. Like it hadn’t occurred to him that maybe Jim didn’t want to hear it twice, that he could barely stand those two words the first time because it felt like Sherlock was laughing at him, spitting at his feet, taunting that even after all this Jim would much rather die than leave him.

“Do you forgive me?”

Jim held his tongue, didn’t move his head.

“Jim, please.”

Well. Jim never had been able to resist a gorgeous, begging man in his bedroom. He glanced up, meeting Sherlock’s eyes, before giving a single nod. “Yes. Of course I forgive you, Sherlock.” _I always do._

Sherlock smiled, relieved. “Thank you. And I am going clean. I mean it, Jim. I won’t use again.”

Sounded sincere. _Maybe it’ll even last a week, this time._

 

“Sherlock?” He was usually home around this time. Jim set down his computer case, glancing around. “Darling, where are you?”

There was a muffled sound that definitely sounded like Sherlock’s voice from the kitchen. Curiosity peaked, Jim quirked an eyebrow before walking towards the sound.

Sherlock must have heard his footsteps because once Jim got close there was a rather dramatic, “No! Not yet, stay out! You arrived early.”

Okaay. “I’m only a few minutes earlier than usual, kitten.”

“Yeah, I started late.” Jim could hear the perplexed frown in Sherlock’s voice. “Slept in by accident. Just-- wait a few minutes. Read a book. I’ll call you when everything’s ready.”

After a dramatic eye roll Jim retired to the living room, obientently pulling out a book. He’d only gotten a few pages in before “Ready!” shook the still of the room, and Jim fought down a smile before closing his book and putting it on the corner table. 

“Are you sure?” Jim called, and it was possible his voice might have been a bit teasing. There was, at least, a certain cheer about it that couldn’t, but would undoubtedly, be denied.

There was some shuffling from the kitchen. “Yes? I think.” 

Jim stood up, heading for the kitchen again. “I was just teasing, pet. I’m sure you’re-- oh.”

Apparently sentences didn’t have long life expectancies when confronted with large, homemade dinner. And not even in an exploded kitchen. The food looked delicious, as well, lots of small portions of different dishes sprinkled along the table. 

Sherlock was looking on nervously. _Do you like it?_

Jim turned to his with a large smile. “Sherlock, this is amazing.”

Sherlock beamed. 

 

"I didn't realize you'd like it that much."

Jim laughed softly, holding Sherlock just a bit tighter and pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. "Darling, if you were an allosexual and wanted me to, I'd have given you a blowjob."

Sherlock sent Jim an amused look. "How sweet."

Dinner had been a thoroughly enjoyable affair. A quarter the food had turned out to be relatively inedible, another quarter far from good, but there were a enough things that had been decided to be absolutely delicious. 

They'd retired to the bedroom, where they were laying together and listening to Sherlock's favorite composer, exchanging soft kisses and soft laughter at silly jokes and sarcasm.

Very nice, admittedly. And if Jim was there, and Sherlock was relaxed, Sherlock wouldn't get high that night.

(It'd been a few days since Sherlock's most recent declaration that he was going to get clean. Jim wanted to stretch out this time for a good while. He was planning on doing more work at home over the next few days.)

"You say that as though I'm not always sweet. I'll have you know I'm practically an angel." Jim replied, letting his eyes fall shut.

He felt Sherlock shift away, and the light glowing through Jim's eyelids shut off. Sherlock's weight moved back against Jim's side. "You are. We should get under the covers."

Jim gave a theatrical sigh at the thought of moving. "That sounds like a horrible idea. Includes moving. How about the covers just move over us?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, picking Jim up-- who gave a sharp squeak in surprised protest-- and tugging the covers down before laying Jim down again. 

"And now all you have to do is pull the covers up." Sherlock pointed out, and despite the darkness Jim knew for a fact there was a smug little smile painted across Sherlock's lips.

"Meanie."

"I only did as you asked!" 

Jim did his turn of eye-rolling, pulling the covers up over them before shifting to lie against Sherlock. "In a mean way, though."

Sherlock placed a kiss to Jim's forehead. "Goodnight, Jim."

Jim smiled, closing his eyes again and resting his head on Sherlock's chest. "Night, kitten. Aisling milis." _Sweet dreams._

 

Jim was home first, that time. Maybe slightly concerning. But not incredibly, and Jim decided to simply read until Sherlock returned. 

Of course, he showed up high.

Not overwhelmingly, not completely checked out. But he was a bit more fuzzy-eyed than normal.

It was probably possible to ignore, so Jim did. 

"Hey kitten." Jim hadn't looked up from his book yet. It was infinitely harder to ignore that Sherlock was high when looking at him. His footsteps had already reeked of it. Even the way he opened and shut the door. Longer pause than usual, quieter than usual.

Sherlock was trying to hide it. Only a stoned him would think he could.

Probably a mistake, then. Sherlock hadn't gone out intending to get high. Did that make it better? Or more pathetic? (Not pathetic-- this wasn’t Sherlock’s fault, and he wasn’t pathetic. But it might have made it harder.)

"Jim, hey. Sorry for being later than usual."

Only lies have detail, according to Sherlock, so he didn't elaborate. He'd apologized, though. Fatal slip. Sherlock never apologized unless it was for something large. 

Jim wished he was better at hiding it. It'd make this easier.

"It's fine." Jim turned the page of his book, eyes moving in stunted lines, doing anything but reading, although it wasn't through lack of effort. "Have fun?"

Sherlock hesitated. If he said no, Jim would ask why and he might figure it out. But if Jim had already figured it out, saying yes would hurt.

Jim felt a flare of annoyance at the delay. God, this was slow. Sherlock was slow. And oh-so-concerned he'd be found out, as though Jim hadn't realized the moment he stepped up to the outside of the door.

So much for being able to ignore it.

Jim closed his book loudly before Sherlock got out an answer. He stood up, picking his coat off the arm of his chair where it'd been draped.

"I'm going out."

And at least Sherlock got the hint then. When it was throughly and blatantly obvious. Jim struggled to keep the repugnance off his face-- he'd never learn to deal with Sherlock when he slipped up.

"Jim, please--"

Jim cut Sherlock off with a sharp look. There was a long list of things he despised hearing and near the top of that list was pathetic (not pathetic), useless excuses. Especially being spouted from the mouth of a bloody junkie. (Not a junkie. A man with a problem. A man Jim loved.)

"It was barely any, and nothing interesting happens any more! If I can think at all these days I'm bored out of my mind."

Oh, of course. "So this is my fault? For not being exciting enough?"

Sherlock deflated as expected. "No. It's mine, Jim, I know that. I just... I need it, Jim."

Jim sighed. Like that would help him feel better. _'You don't understand, I'm definitely a junkie!'_ Nice. Perfect. Just... perfect. "I can't stand you like this, Sherlock. You were deluded enough to think I actually wouldn't notice."

"I didn't _think_ you wouldn't." Sherlock commented quietly. "I _hoped_."

Jim stiffened. "Are you asking me to stay?"

Sherlock took a slow breath, considering. "...No. I can't ask you to do that."

"Good." Jim tugged his coat on the rest of the way and headed to the door.

He stopped next to Sherlock on his way out. "I can't take you doing this anymore."

Sherlock nodded slowly after a moment's hesitation. "I know. I love you."

Jim let a small smile pull at his lips for a moment. "I love you too, kitten." He said, then left Sherlock with only the short echo of the door shutting.

 

It was only a few hours again before Jim came back. It hadn’t quite been a fight, and they’d parted with love, but it was still definitely a small spat and Jim wanted to make up properly. Hopefully with a night in and tea.

“Sherlock?” Best to just announce it. Didn’t want to scare Sherlock but suddenly appearing. Of course, no response.

Jim walked into their room, placing his jacket on the back of a chair as he glanced around. Unless he was off on a case, Sherlock should be passed out on the bed. Maybe he was simply passed out somewhere else in the house. But it’d be a first.

“Sherlock?” Jim checked the kitchen, the library, the living room again, their room again, the spare room, his office, the lab, and then stewed, sitting down cross legged on the living room floor.

He should call Sherlock. Maybe he had his phone on him. He usually did. Jim clicked Sherlock’s number, barely having to wait a moment before his phone started the call, and he heard Sherlock’s ringtone for him sounding from their bedroom.

Brilliant. He’d left his phone.

Jim returned to the bedroom, glancing around for Sherlock’s phone. The sound was coming from a door, though. Connecting bathroom.

Alright. Bit weird, but alright. Jim pushed open the door to find Sherlock, lying on the floor.

So that’s where he’d passed out.

The phone beside him went to voicemail.

Jim gave a long sigh, hanging up the call before squatting down next to Sherlock. 

There was a needle next to him.

Damn.

Jim carefully picked it up, wrinkling his nose before placing it on the sink. He could clean it up later. Or, get rid of it. Jim returned his attention to Sherlock, placing a hand on his shoulder and shaking him gently. It really wasn’t good for him to stay on the floor, he’d hurt his back. “Wake up, kitten. I’m not carrying you to bed, for goodness sake.”

Sherlock stayed still. 

Jim paused before shaking him a bit more strongly. “Sherlock. Wake up.”

Sherlock stayed still.

“Wake up. Sherlock!” 

Still.

_No._

Jim placed his fingers on the side of Sherlock’s neck, holding his breath. He his fingers were in the wrong place, because there wasn’t a pulse. He moved them, kneeling down completely. Still no pulse. Jim really had thought he was better at this. He moved his fingers again.

No pulse.

Moved them again.

No pulse.

Again.

Nothing.

He placed his hand on Sherlock’s chest, over his heart.

Nothing.

_Nothing._

“Sherlock. Wake up. You have to wake up Sherlock.”

Silence.

Jim hit Sherlock’s chest. “Wake up! Don’t you fucking-- _wake up_. Please, Sherlock, you’re scaring me.”

Damn it. Damn it.

Jim moved his hand to Sherlock’s jaw, staring quietly and disbelieving. 

He noticed a distinct, terrifying lack of warmth.

“It’s okay Sherlock. It’s alright.” Jim rested his forehead on the top of Sherlock’s head, running his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone. He tilted his head up, running his lips over Sherlock’s hair, pushing down the sob that was forming in his throat.

“Don’t worry. It’s…” Jim took a shaking breath. “It’s fine.”

It was fine.

It had to be fine.

Jim carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, pausing with his hand on the nape of Sherlock’s neck. After studying Sherlock’s face for a few moments, Jim moved his hand to cup Sherlock’s jaw again, placing a light kiss on of Sherlock’s forehead. He laid Sherlock back down on the floor. Lightly tugged his suit jacket, fixed his shirt. Brushed away the fringe laying over one of Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock was dead.

 

 

_Jim grinned, slowly, and he kicked off the wall, walking up close to Sherlock. “Alright. You ask first, then, kitten.”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes-- he’d almost regret agreeing to play this, expect he was ridiculously bored and the only other option was drinking more wine. Didn’t sound as interesting. “Is your family living?”_

_“None now.” Jim shrugged. “Why didn’t you sleep with Irene?”_

_”Asexual. Why did you say ‘now’?”_

_“My brother died a few months ago.” Jim said it as offhandedly as he could manage, taking a sip of his wine after._

_Oh. Sherlock blinked in surprised. “I’m sorry.”_

_Jim gave a soft laugh. “Don’t be. Do you hate your brother?”_

_“No. Not really. He tries to help me.” Sherlock shrugged. Sure, there was sibling rivalry, but not too much. “The hate is mostly for show so that our work doesn’t endanger each other--” Hated siblings provide no leverage, clever. “--but he can be a prat sometimes. Were you close with yours?”_

_Jim wiggled his hand. “Sort of. Yes very, for a while. Not so much after we were kids, though.”_

_”What happened to the rest of your family?” Probably rude to ask. Sherlock got the feeling Jim wouldn’t mind._

_”Not a clue. I ran away when I was still young. Why the interest in my family?”_

_”You’d make a fascinating case study.” Also probably rude to flirt after talking about familial deaths and running away._

_”A case study based around my dead family.” Jim rolled his eyes. “Well, there are worse things to investigate.”_

_”You, not them.” Sherlock corrected. “But they form a part of your story.”_

_”And you want to know my story.” Jim allowed a small smile on his lips, and he had another mouthful of wine. “Bit flattering, that.”_

_”I would think it is, yes. Why did you run away?”_

_Jim studied Sherlock for a few moments, briefly considering ending the game, but if he were to tell anyone it may as well be The Great Sherlock Holmes. “Sent me to conversion therapy.”_

_Ah. Never a pleasant thing. “When you were just a child?”_

_Jim shrugged. “Ah, well, caught me staring at lots of boys. Plus, diagnosed clinical depression and psychopathic tendencies. Three birds with one stone. I got to go to a straight camp for the mentally fucked.” He gave a wide, cheerful smile. “And that’s two questions, kitten.”_

_True. “Ask me two in a row, then.”_

_Not even a full heartbeat. ”Have you ever felt like kissing me?”_

_“Yes.” The answer was just as immediate as the question._

_”When?”_

_”The pool.”_

_”Our first face to face meeting.” Jim held a hand over his heart. “How sweet. Ask me a question.”_

_Sherlock considered for a few moments. “Want me to stop asking about your past?”_

_Tricky question. Jim had been hoping for something less complicated to answer, so he could ask his next question. “No. No, I don’t think I mind, with you.”_

_”And you’re sure.” Technically not a question._

_”Not at all.” Had to tell the truth, after all. Jim shifted closer. “Do you want to kiss me now?”_

_”Of course. Lit fireplace, wine, and mental stimulation-- how could I not?”_

_Jim grinned. “Is that an actual question?”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No. Nor am I counting yours just then.”_

_”Well. Your turn, either way.”_

_”Do you want to kiss me, too?”_

_Jim let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Since the moment I laid eyes on you, pet.”_

_Well, there was really only one proper response to that, and it definitely wasn’t a question. And of course, confirming the implied consent, Jim kissed back._

 

 

There wasn’t a funeral, of course. Everyone had thought he was dead before. The only people who knew otherwise were Jim and Sebastian. Jim was hardly in the right emotional state, and Sebastian hadn’t been a huge fan of Sherlock nor knew how to plan a funeral. Besides, one with only two people attending would have been stupid. (And Sherlock had always hated stupid.)

Sebastian had found Jim in the bathroom when he went to summarize recent jobs, crying over Sherlock’s body. Sebastian had later found out he’d come an hour after Jim found Sherlock.

He had to pry Jim away from the body, and Jim had just ended up curling against Sebastian’s chest to cry instead.

That’d gone on for at least another half hour-- Sebastian wasn’t entirely sure how long, he didn’t look at a clock until the next day. But it had felt like an hour and there was probably some sort of emotions stretching it out longer, so he’d estimate it was half that.

Anyway.

Sherlock couldn’t have been buried in his marked grave. People would have noticed. John could have been there. Too many things that could have gone wrong. Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted to be buried, anyway. Defeated the purpose of things dying, trying to preserve them.

So Sherlock was turned into a tree. Or, he’d be used to help a tree grow. But Jim prefered the thought of Sherlock being a tree, because he knew where that tree was and he could talk to it, if he wanted to.

And talking to it released carbon dioxide, which trees used, and Jim could pretend he was helping Sherlock grow.

He was pretty sure Sherlock would have appreciated being turned into a tree.

 

“Jim?” Sebastian had made it a habit of checking up on him more often than usual. Jim didn’t handle emotions well.

“Office.”

Admittedly, there was worse ways for Jim to cope than working obsessively. And continually. Without so much as a hint of slowing down or stopping. For a month so far.

Sebastian walked into Jim’s office, placing takeout on his desk. “How are you today?”

Jim shrugged, not looking up from his computer. Which wasn’t exactly unexpected, admittedly. 

“Got us some dinner.”

That did get Jim to glance at Sebastian, sending him a curious look. “Us?” Usually Sebastian just said ‘you’. 

Sebastian nodded. “Yep. Close your computer, we’re having dinner together.”

Jim wrinkled his nose, turning his attention back to his computer. “No.”

“Yes, Jim. You’re not ea--”

_”Boss.”_

“Pardon?”

“That’s Boss to you, Moran.”

Sebastian scowled. “Like hell it is. Just fucking eat dinner with me, Jim, you’ve obviously not been eating apart from when I make you.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “I’m not hungry. Go away.”

“I won’t stop pestering you until after we have dinner together.”

“You asking me out on a date?”

Sebastian sighed. Jim’s moods had just been getting more and more shit recently. 

“Hate to tell you, Tiger, but just because Sherlock is dead doesn’t mean I’m suddenly going to fall for you. I didn’t before, and you’ve only gotten more unru--” Sebastian had placed his hand on the back of Jim’s laptop and closed it, then picked it up while Jim simply blinked at him in shock. 

“No computer until you eat dinner.”

“You’re neither my parent nor my boyfriend. Give me my computer back, Moran.”

“Of course.” Sebastian smiled. “After you eat.”

“I’m your employer, ‘Bastian. Give me back. My. Computer.”

“No.”

Jim gave Sebastian what he thought was a very good cold look. “You’re fired.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes in reply. “Yeah, whatever. Come eat.” He picked up the takeout before he turned and walked off. Jim only had one computer per house, and if he hadn’t been using his phone before then whatever task he’d been doing must have required using his computer. 

It wasn’t very long before Jim walked into the kitchen. Sebastian had gotten out plates and silverware and was mostly done taking out the food, he finished it up as Jim sat down, then threw away the bag their dinner had come in. 

Jim started to eat silently, and Sebastian didn’t really mind, because he was eating. Sure, it wasn’t exactly healthy and it wasn't exactly gourmet, but it was something.

Jim tugged one of his sleeves down further before pushing his bowl away. He’d had about two small servings, which he was hoping would be enough so that he wouldn’t have to be around Sebastian anymore.

He was disappointed to receive a disapproving look. “Taking a break?”

“I’m full.”

Sebastian sighed, and when he went to berate Jim he paused before deciding against it-- Jim looked tired and sad and almost desperate, and he’d eaten more than usual. Again, this was just a starting point. They could work up from it.

So Sebastian gave a curt nod, and Jim stood up, picking up his dishes as well before placing them in the sink. He headed to the door but paused next to Sebastian, staring at his hands for a few heartbeats before he kept going and left.

Sebastian didn’t catch what Jim had mumbled, but decided that it probably wasn’t a good time to ask.

 

It was a few hours before Sebastian opened the door to Jim’s room, and he was surprised to find Jim sleeping under the covers peacefully.

It wasn’t odd for Jim to sleep. He’d probably had clinical depression his whole life-- he slept a lot. Unless something was proving to be constantly stimulating in the long term, like Sherlock had been every so often, in which case he barely slept at all so he could fawn over the interesting thing as much as possible.

Sherlock had gone back and forth between being that for Jim. 

Sometimes Sebastian had seen the two of them lying on the floor in front of a fire, or drinking tea on chairs, or one using the other as furniture-- Sherlock would be talking. And at first it’d seem like a conversation, but after eavesdropping for a while Sebastian would notice Jim wasn’t talking, at all, and he began to recognize those conversations as Jim being thoroughly romanced. 

Jim wouldn’t have to talk, nor would he want to. At random points Jim had found Sherlock so undeniably clever and interesting and gorgeous that he’d just want Sherlock to talk at him. Whatever came to mind. From what Sebastian had noticed, Jim wasn’t subtle about it either-- usually he’d flat out say that was what he wanted.

And the looks of pure adoration Sherlock got from Jim at those times was ridiculous. 

Sebastian didn’t even know if Sherlock had noticed them, nonetheless appreciated them. 

Those were extreme examples of Sherlock being interesting, though. He wasn’t always that for Jim, Sebastian knew. He took on more than one role Sebastian never could have. 

Sherlock comforted. 

Jim got nightmares-- horrible ones, habitually, they kept him restless at night and haunted his thoughts during the day. They made him scared to sleep and when he finally slipped into darkness, they screamed and tore at him until he was forced back awake.

Jim didn’t sleep peacefully, unless Sherlock was there, wrapped around him securely.

And Sherlock wasn’t there.

Yet Jim slept peacefully.

Sebastian immediately started to poke around. Quietly-- Jim was a light sleeper, even if his current state was unnaturally deep Sebastian didn’t want to risk it. In general, Jim’s body had seemed to block out Sebastian-type sounds. The way he opened doors, the sound of his footsteps, etc. But only the normal ones.

Sebastian was fairly certain it wouldn’t work when the sounds in question were him opening Jim’s drawers and looking through his closet.

Still, worth the risk.

It took him a while and a lot of teeth-gritting before he finally found a small, wooden box under one of Jim’s floorboards. Sebastian opened it to find a needle and a bag of white powder.

Another gritting of his teeth.

He took out the contents, carefully, then closed the box and replaced it in the same position he'd found it, smoothing the board over the hidden hole to make it seem untampered with.

Usually Sebastian wouldn't bother, with everything Jim could notice, but he somehow doubted that Jim would have his usual abilities up to par until he next went for another hit, and at that point Sebastian would be found out anyway.

He left, flushing the bag down the toilet once he'd gotten to a bathroom. After checking on Jim one last time-- still dead to the world-- Sebastian went to bed, wanting to get some decent sleep before the inevitable fall out.

 

Inevitable. Well, it appeared to be evitabled so far. Nothing had happened for the rest of the week. Jim had kept working in either his room or office-- although Sebastian had managed to lure him into sunlight for a few hours on Thursday-- and stayed quiet. Generally avoiding Sebastian, which wasn't new, and he hadn't blown up about his missing drugs.

"Tiger darling."

Sebastian hadn't heard Jim come up behind him, caught up in cleaning his gun, but at that point he'd become so used to Jim just appearing that he didn't react other than make a questioning sound. 

"Mmhm?"

"You should make me something to eat."

Unexpected. Sebastian placed his revolver down on the coffee table in front of him. "What would you like?"

Jim gave a long-suffering sigh. "I don't care-- whatever's fastest. As long as it's not horrible."

Ah. Of course. "Drugs making you hungry?"

The soft sound of confirmation from Jim was far more annoying that Sebastian would have anticipated. It was like Jim didn't even care that he was high, that Sebastian knew, that is was probably going to kill him.

"Ravenous. Are you going to make me something?" 

Giving into Jim's stoned whims would hardly help convince him to stop taking drugs. But it was an opportunity to get proper food inside him. "Give me a few minutes."

Jim, of course, just pouted because the food wouldn't be immediate.

 

It was much harder than Sebastian had thought it would be to tell Jim off for getting high. Or denying Jim what he wanted when he was high. Or doing anything that wasn't blatant enabling. 

Jim had ushered Sebastian out of the house a few times, in the morning. Looking disheveled and regretful and off a high. 

Sebastian had left without complaint. He hadn't wanted to see whoever was Jim's previous night's mistake.

Usually Jim just very politely suggested things Sebastian should do for him. If it had been demands, Sebastian might have had a better chance denying him. Natural head butting tendency with authority figures could have helped out.

But the suggestions-- the _it would be lovely if_ , the _you know, you could_ , _I'd appreciate it ever so much if only_... those were hard to say no to.

And usually it wasn't bad things. It was Jim wanting a warm blanket or a cup of tea with a few droplets of honey, something small to eat or simply a warm body to lie against. Things Sebastian would never deny him usually. But in Jim's lazy and affectionate haze Sebastian couldn't even bring himself to put up a fight.

He just seemed sweet. Perhaps not quite up to his usual level, and maybe Sebastian had taken to going over the jobs Jim had planned to make sure there were no oversights (which there had been, a few times. Sebastian had fixed them without any comment to Jim.) but he seemed infinitely more content than he had since Sherlock died.

The rough patch seemed to have passed. As long as Jim was high, and that was becoming a near constant, he was content.

Sebastian couldn't have threatened Jim's happiness to save the life of anyone.

Not even of Jim's itself, apparently. 

 

"I thought you were making me food." Jim murmured, although he didn't exactly struggle when Sebastian picked him up. He only did so to sit down before settling Jim back on the couch, now lying on Sebastian as well.

Jim settled himself back down comfortably after Sebastian had stopped moving, shifting to use Sebastien more of a pillow than anything. 

"I ordered us delivery."

Jim glanced up. "What kind?"

"Chinese. Jim?" 

"Mmh?"

"Why do you take drugs?"

Oh. Jim blinked, tilting his head in consideration. They helped, was all. Quieted his head.

"Because I think either you're punishing yourself for Sherlock or you're trying to feel close to him again."

Well that just sounded far too confusing. "Can't I just be numbing the pain?" Sounded more likely. Ignoring the pain of loss of the one man who at least somewhat understood him. Definitely fit.

"You've been numbing pain your whole life." Jim had nightmares, Sebastian knew. Before, during, and after Sherlock. And even if he wasn't sure something horrible had happened in his past, Jim hardly had a bustling social life and showed enough signs of depression. He'd definitely spent a large portion of his life numbing pain. "You haven't been an addict your whole life."

Jim bristled at the word 'addict'. "And what makes you think I'm addicted?"

"Overuse of defensive reactions, secluding yourself, having stashes, neglecting other activities, loss of appetite, change in personality... I'm really not as oblivious as you think I am."

There was a short pause where Jim digested the information. Probably contemplated a reasonable reaction. "I'm not a junkie."

"I never said you were."

"You said I was an addict."

"You are."

"I'm not a junkie!" Jim sat up, clenching his jaw and keeping his back to Sebastian.

Sebastian reached out his hand but paused before he touched Jim's shoulder, eventually drawing it back. "I know. But this is a problem."

Jim's shoulders loosened a bit. 

"I can help, Jim."

Another reply of silence.

"Jim."

"When's food arriving?"

"Jim, please."

"Actually, I'm not sure I'm hungry anymore. You have dinner. I'm going to bed." He stood up, and Sebastian grabbed his wrist.

Jim reacted immediately, tearing himself free from Sebastian's hold and spinning to face Sebastian tensely. "I'm not going to stand here and be accused of such ridiculous recriminations." 

"I'm sorry." Sebastian quickly replied. He should have stayed quiet. He hadn't meant to make Jim skip dinner, or make him uncomfortable. Jim'd spent so much of his time uncomfortable, annoyed-- Sebastian wasn't exactly thrilled he'd caused more of that. "I'll drop it. But have something to eat."

Jim resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sebastian couldn't even decide what he was most worried about, here. "One skipped meal won't kill me."

"You skip all meals but dinner, Jim."

Jim shrugged. "One more than usual, then. And I have coffee in the mornings."

"Coffee is hardly a well-rounded breakfast." 

"I'm hardly a well-rounded person. What's your point?"

Clearly, Sebastian wasn't making much progress. "Okay, fine. But eat something, when it arrives. You don't have to eat with me."

"Oh don't I?" Jim let his mouth fall open in surprise. "What happy day, I hadn't known! Now I can eat every meal, knowing I won't have to be around you when I do it!"

Sebastian clenched his jaw. "Jim--"

"No, darling." Jim interrupted. "My name is 'Boss' to you."

Okay. This was going to be a trail of Sebastian's willpower when it came to making himself not hit things. "Boss. I just want you to have something to eat."

"Do you promise to leave me alone until tomorrow at dinner when you again pester me to eat if I do?" 

No. "Yes."

Jim tilted his head, eyes trained on Sebastian's face for a little while. Looking for signs of lying. Eventually, he was satisfied, and gave a curt nod. "Alright. Leave my food outside the door when it arrives."

Sebastian was thoroughly aware that he had no way of knowing if Jim ended up actually eating or not.

 

**When will you be home? x**

**Sometime tonight. SM**

**Earliest to latest ETA? x**

**23:00, never. SM**

**You're so melodramatic. x**

**You're one to talk. SM**

**Latest if you don't die and nothing goes too horribly wrong? x**

**Define 'too terribly wrong'. SM**

**Me getting frustrated and sending someone to take you out because you're useless if you don't answer my questions when you damn well know what I mean. x**

**Mean. SM**  
**Around 2, I'd say. SM**

**There, was that so hard? x**

**Painful. Really. SM**

**Go do your job. x**

**Yessir. SM**  
**Don't forget to eat. SM**

**I won't. x**  
**Good luck. x**

**Thanks, Boss.**

 

Sebastian had looked for Jim for two months.

Barely sleeping, barely eating. Doing the bare minimum to keep the network alive for when he found Jim and made him come back.

At one month in he'd resigned himself to start looking for a body. Jim was good, but Sebastian wasn't a lax tracker. Even Jim couldn't erase himself off the world completely in a night. Not if he was still alive.

Sebastian had known that right away, of course. That if he hadn't found him in the week he wouldn't find him alive.

 

Half a year. Sebastian ate well. Could sleep without feeling guilty. Only half his energy went into looking for Jim.

 

Seven months, two weeks, one day. Jim's body had been found. Unmarked grave. Suicide. 

Sebastian had figured out who'd buried him and shot them from a foot away. No greeting, no explanation. He got someone else to clean everything up.

He allowed himself to mourn, properly, with the confirmation. Spiraled down, got worse, got reckless. Got shot.

Disappointingly at the time, he lived. 

Still, slowly, he got better.

Mourning, of course, but moving on.

He'd do the one thing Jim failed to. He'd deal. He'd just need time.

**Author's Note:**

> Headcanoned with the lovely [Sophie](http://nerdmoriarty.tumblr.com), ended turning into a 6K word fic. C'est la vie.


End file.
